She's
touching herself, and it drives me mad with desire. One hand on the
bottom of her camisole, giving it a lift, showing me the gentle
curve of her belly. The other hand addresses the thin, delicate
strap, ready to slide it off her shoulder, releasing her full bosom
into my waiting—well, whatever. Wisps of hair menace and frame her
face, and I ache to reach out and brush them back, tracing the curve
of her cheek with my excited fingers before that strap ends its
duty.

I
have rediscovered a boyhood wellspring of secret delights: the
women's lingerie section of the old-fashioned catalog. Page 238 of
the J.C. Penney Spring/Summer 2000 catalog holds my secret love, in
bralette and hi-cut brief. Or is it the lower right-hand corner of
page 245, or perhaps the demure and dusky beauty at the bottom of
page 252?

Printed
in four colors on slick, cheap paper, the new economy
www.jcpenney.com at the bottom of each page, it has not lost its
power to tickle a few dormant memories to life. I can smell the
bleach of the laundry room, my secret lair as a youth, where J.C.
Penney and Sears Roebuck catalog played their private lap dance
beneath my wild-eyed fascination.

Just
think of it—all that lusciousness, all those adjectives, all those
bouncing bosoms barely restrained by wisps of lace, lovingly
described by the copywriter.

"Fits
like a second skin." "Smooth and silky soft."
"Caressing." "Enticing." "Plunging
neckline."

And
the names of the various styles roll off the dripping tongue:
Enchantress. Soft Embrace. Smooth Compliments. Simply Gorgeous.
Beyond Beautiful. Skin to Skin. Body Language.

Deconstruct
with me, if you will, my romp through this wonderland of barely clad
beauties. The secrets of their allure unfold.

They
touch themselves. On every page, they touch themselves. A hand is
lifted to a strap, as if to slide it from a silky shoulder. A hand
brushes back the thick and restless mane of hair. Best of all, a
hand disappears between her thighs, just where the illustration
stops, leaving to the imagination her hand's destination and intent.

Those
wisps of hair, straying wantonly away from sleek pageboy or casual
chignon, clearly the result of a quick but delicious frolic before
the lights-camera-action demands of their modeling career. It cannot
be an accident that most have long hair.

The
poses. Women in real life, at least in my experience, do not pose
often enough. They do not stop in the act of undressing to cross
their arms at the waist, hug themselves, and push up two beautiful
mounds, with nested cleavage awaiting my touch. They do not lie on
their sides, heads propped on an elbow, soft, rounded curve escaping
from the top of a strapless demibra with maximum lift push-up
plunge. They do not look down at themselves, as if in admiration of
their own full-figured beauty, complete with scalloped lace detail.
They do not simply sit, gaze meeting me squarely in the eye, to
allow me to admire the frosted honeydew ensemble with its two skinny
straps and its flattering demi shaping, on page 250.

And
the gaze. Ah, the gaze. On every page, they look at you. The most
commanding, the most powerful of the images are those that look at
you. Less effective are the thoughtful ones, eyes dropping demurely
to the side. They are less apt to have the loose wisps of hair, I
notice. Most are somewhat serious. Thoughtful. Gauging my ability to
satisfy their needs. Challenging me to try. Some manage to achieve
an air of mystery in their sidelong glances, but I prefer the bold
frontal assault. Except for that one on page 253, wearing the
elegant twist full-figure underwire in two-way stretch jacquard....

I
am having way too much fun with this. Please forgive me.

What
is my point?

First,
that some of the power of these images stems from roots deep in
memory—those early encounters with the combined powers of
imagination, testosterone, and imagery.

Second,
that much more of their power—for me, at least—stems from their
very wholesomeness. These are not the leering lecherous wenches of
Victoria's Secret, with out-thrust bottoms, hands on knees, feet
tortured in the highest of spike heels, with bosoms thrust
intrusively into my face revealing no hint of modesty. Modesty—it
serves larger purposes than one might think.

The
big-book catalog women could actually be someone's wife, someone's
girlfriend—and God forbid, on page 271, someone's terribly happy
grandmother. They are real, not airbrushed—except for that
suspicious lack of nipple in the most see-through of bras.

Yes,
put our imaginations to work. The mind is the most reliable sex
organ of them all.

Please,
please, women everywhere: Understand that the digitized size 2
impossibilities of the supermodels are not the images we grew up
with, not the images that stimulated our wildest fantasies that we
now unleash on you. Draw your inspiration from J.C. Penney, from
Sears, from Montgomery Wards. And occasionally, for the sake of your
man, cross your arms and hug yourselves for a moment.

There
you have it. That is our secret, the secret of men, the truth, told
in the simplest of language.

The
porn markets are a giant bore to most of us. Real women, with softly
rounded bellies from the bearing of beautiful children, are the real
thing. Women, women of all shapes and sizes, mind you, enjoying
private moments in their undergarments, without a leer or
pout—these are the women of our fantasies who have been with us
since the first crack of our hormonally charged vocal cords.

You
have all the power in the world. Please be kind with it. You now
know our secret.